


Metal

by watsonswarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonswarrior/pseuds/watsonswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from Afghanistan, but never runs into Mike Stamford, and, in turn, never meeting Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Metal

His release was due to a nasty bullet in the shoulder by one of those damned snipers hiding out in the brush of the desert floor. He never thought he'd get out of Afghanistan alive going by the amount of blood gushing from the open wound. He blacked out several times, only vaguely remembering being lifted by a stretcher, seeing solemn, nameless faces he would never see again. Then the feeling of being weightless. Then nothing at all. He figured this may be what death was like. An empty black void.

But without warning, there was a burst of white light that nearly blinded him. Once the star bursts were gone from his vision, he realized he was in a hospital. Wearing a hospital gown. He smelled the harsh disinfectant and another distinct smell he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he knew he was alive and in a hospital, which made him slightly at ease. Although it was quite odd, being on the other end. Being the patient.

They discharged him within a week or so. John wasn't entirely sure, time seemed to blend together, meshing into an indistinct blur. He knew his mother stopped by with flowers, the same with Harry, except she brought a balloon. He needed to go into physical therapy for quite a long time and go to an actual psychologist for who knew how long. Until he no longer showed signs of PTSD, he figured. Well, until he stopped showing signs of being 'self destructive' and a 'danger to himself' as the doctors ever so gently put it. He took his shiny new cane and limped his way to the exit where he would then hail a taxi to his new flat provided to him by his rubbish army pension. 

\---

John got dressed, slowly pulling his arms into a checked, plaid shirt and a warm jumper over it. As he put his legs through a pair of freshly laundered jeans, he thought about life before he being deployed. He had been good ol' Johnny boy, then one who always had a smile on his face and had no problem meeting new people, becoming friends with them. He was very sociable and had no problem putting himself out there. Sure, he had his bad days, but overall, he had a positive outlook on life.

Now look at him. The jaded, weary, ex army doctor. The one who had trouble trusting a single person. His mates would try ringing his mobile, but he always sent them to voicemail. He had no desire in reconnecting with anyone, especially now that he wasn't the John Watson he used to be. He had his routine that he would stick to: wake up, rubbing his latest nightmare from his eyes, get dressed, stare blankly at his blog, go to therapy, walk around aimlessly, think about getting a job, go back to his flat, watch crap telly, then go to sleep and dream about the war. Rinse and repeat. It was easier to handle the crushing pain if he stuck to the routine.

John opened the drawer of his rickety desk slowly, taking out the handgun with caution. He held it in his rough hands, double checking to see if the safety was on. John slid is fingers on the cold metal. He turned the gun over and over in his hand. He's made a habit of doing this. Of taking out his gun and just holding it before he went out. It was a sort of sick comfort, knowing it was always there. It would never leave or walk out on him. It would never change or warp. It would always be in that very drawer, waiting for him to pick it up and hold it. He placed it back in the drawer, grabbed his coat and cane, and stalked out of his flat.

He decided he wanted to go to the park. Just to sit on one of the many benches and watch the people walk by, without a care in the bloody world. John also wanted to feel the warm sun and the brisk autumn breeze beneath his layers of clothing. He felt as if his flat was suffocating him, that the walls were drawing closer together. He needed fresh air. So he got on a bus and patiently awaited the stop that would bring him to the nearest park. The bus screeched to a halt every other second, catching nearly every red light. Finally, the bus reached John's stop. He hobbled down the stairs, greeted by a cool breeze.

He inhaled deeply and limped his way to the entrance of the park. While John took his stroll, he thought he saw someone vaguely familiar, but never figured out who it was because the hefty man gathered his things from the bench and walked away in the opposite direction. Maybe, years ago, he would have hailed him down, but not anymore. He was a changed man and had no desire in making that effort. So, this new John Watson walked down the park, alone, not thinking twice about the man he may have known

\---

Weeks passed since John had visited the park. He stuck with his routine, never going anywhere. Just wading in the stagnant waters of his life. His mates, well, former mates, stopped trying to get a hold of him. Harry dropped by, but the visit ended in a heated argument, yelling, and door slamming. His mother tried several times to snap him out of this state he was in, but decided space would be the best option. He eventually felt himself slip into a deep depression. The signs were obvious, he was a doctor after all. But he did nothing about it. He didn't tell anyone about it, or sought out to get pills. He stopped seeing his therapist. On one of the rare days he left his flat, he went into a corner store to get things he needed. When he was all checked out, bags in hand, he saw a news stand containing that day's paper.

He glanced at the front cover, when an odd name struck him: 'Sherlock Holmes'. This pulled him in, not accustomed to seeing such a strange, and curiously intruging, name in the paper. He backtraced until he found the header of the article. It read: 'Man Found Guilty of Illegal Drug Possession.' There was a photo of the offender right underneath.

John couldn't help but gawk at such a strange, unique face. His cheekbones stood out against his white, almost wan, face. His dark curls contrasted heavily against his skin. Even from the grainy picture John could make out the deep, purple bags underneath his striking eyes. There was something eerily familiar about the look in his bloodshot eyes. There was emptiness inside this man, John knew, since he had enough experience to tell by the vacant gaze. This was the look of a man who had lost the will to live.

John threw the paper down and hurried back to his flat, leaning on his cane with each excruciating limp. He fumbled with his keys but finally made it inside. He locked the door and took off his coat, placing it on the hanger. He walked over to his desk and sat down, leaning the cane on the sturdy wood. He opened his drawer, and there it was. His gun, like it was there waiting for him to return. He smiled at the sight of it, drinking in its comforting presence.

John took it out, handling it with the ease of a soldier. He let his eyes close as his fingers gripped the cool metal. He memorized every nook and cranny, every dip, every ridge. He looked at the gun profoundly. What was stopping him? What was tying him to this flat, this city, this planet. He twisted the metal in his left hand, realizing how dangerous it can truly be. But how could something so dangerous bring him such joy and love? He smiled warmly down at the handgun and flicked the safety off. John sighed, relishing in the sweet clicking sound. So very easy. He drew the gun up to his temple and put his finger on the trigger, smiling even wider.


	2. The Light After the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets admitted into a psyche ward where he meets the recovering addict, previously suicidal, Sherlock

Just as John's finger was about to close around the trigger, ending it all, the door burst open. He dropped the gun onto the hard wooden floor, making a loud clattering sound as the metal made impact. He looked up, shaken from his trance. What was he about to do? He felt his eyebrows furrow as he looked up, seeing Harry standing at the doorway, eyes wide with shock, hands covering her mouth. She ran up to him, throwing her arms around his stiff frame.

Harry was blubbering, sobs echoing off the dull beige walls of the flat. John was just focusing on his breathing. In and out and in and out. He grit his teeth and blinked several times. He was just about to off himself, not even five minutes ago. John had trouble wrapping his head around this fact. That's what it was. A fact. He had the point resting on his temple and his finger on the trigger. And Harry had come in, just as he was about to shoot. Now Harry held him, rocking his body in her tight grip. All of these were facts.

None of this was an alcohol induced dream. He never once thought it would get to this point, to the point of almost no return. He kept breathing, closing his eyes to fade out his sister's sobs and concentrated on his elevated heart rate. He was alive. He was alive and John clung to this truth with every fiber of his being. His heart was still beating and he felt life coursing through his veins. Ever since the gun slipped from his hand, everything was both clear and blanketed by a thick haze. He heard the breeze roll in from the slightly open window and saw the crisply folded bed sheets and smelled Harry's warm vanilla perfume.

He saw the discarded gun and thought about if Harry had not come in. His lifeless body would be slumped on the floor, blood and brain matter splattered, adding vibrant crimson to the beige. He would bleed profusely. John gauged how large the blood stain would be. He thought of his dead eyes, the light blown out by the gunshot. Would they be open in terror? Would they be closed? But no. Right now his eyes were open and confused and moist...were these tears? He couldn't be sure but he was alive. Harry wiped the moisture from her eyes and sniffed loudly. Her mascara fan down her face, clumping around her lashes. She got up from her knees and straightened her shirt. 

"I was just coming by to try to talk with you again. I tried knocking, but you wouldn't answer, so I got out the separate set of keys I had made for your flat, and I see...I see you sitting there, w-with the gun..." Harry broke off and fell into another fit of sobs. John was still in the daze of being alive. He knew Harry was crying, but all he could do was stare at the piece of wallpaper, now yellow and curled with age. After her fit subsided, she walked back to where John was sitting, and knelt for a second time. 

"There are absolutely no words to describe how relieved I am to see you sitting hear, breathing, as opposed to...well. But you do know that I can't just leave you be. After your episode, I'm not entirely sure that, no matter how adamantly you tell me, you won't relapse." Harry pushed John's overgrown hair off of his pale forehead. "Johnny, I say this with all my love. I think you need to see a professional. I'm not talking about the type you saw to talk with, but one that deals with attempted suicides." John nodded absentmindedly, looking into the vague middle distance.

He distantly heard what Harry said, well, bits and pieces, but enough. Episode. Relapse. A professional. Attempted suicide. All of these words were swirling around his functioning brain. He doesn't even remember grabbing his coat and following Harry out the door. The next moment they were in, what seemed to be, a hospital. They waited until a nurse called his name. Harry went with him. She asked to remove his cane, shoelaces, watch, phone, anything to be construed as a weapon. She told Harry something about visiting hours. Harry looked despairingly at John and enveloped him into another bear hug before she walked out of the ward.

John got used to life in the psyche ward. He was told he'd be staying until the doctor saw fit, so he didn't know when he would be released. He was given pills three times a day: when he woke up, during lunch, and before he went to sleep, all while a nurse watched and checked to see that he had them swallowed. He was forced to attend group talks, which weren't so bad, but the craft hour was terrible. John, lacking in creative ingenuity, failed to create anything impressive. 

After being there for a little over a week, he saw a new, vaguely familiar face in the group discussion. He had his head down for the majority of the session. John couldn't put a finger on where he recognized this man from. He focused on the entirely too thin frame and the mop of wild, dark curls atop his head. When he finally looked up towards the end. John nearly gasped. That was Sherlock Holmes, the one he saw in the newspaper that had been sent to jail for illegal drug possession. He must be out on parole or something. Maybe they granted him rehab time to cut down his sentence. Either way, he looked terrible. Worse than he had when he saw that one photo.

The man looked like a walking corpse. His eyes still looked dead, without a hint of light in them. John could see the bones underneath his near translucent skin. His hair was incredibly overgrown, ringlets tumbling into his face, obstructing those fascinating eyes. John didn't even realize the session had come to a close, until Anthea shook him and told him so. He blinked, once, twice, a third time, and thanked her, telling them he'd see her at lunch. He stood quickly, but then regretted it, not having his cane to support his weight. He whipped his head over to where Sherlock had been sitting, but his chair was vacant. He must have booked it as soon as the session was called to a close. 

He limped back to his room and read until it was time for lunch. When he arrived, he saw Sherlock there, sitting at a table by himself, arms crossed on his bony chest. John smiled at the people he usually sat with, but bypassed them to make his way over to Sherlock. 

"May I sit here?" John asked politely.

"Knock yourself out," Sherlock muttered. John was surprised at the deep baritone of his voice. It was like thunder on a stormy night. John cleared his throat, pulling back the chair with a loud screech.

"Name's John. John Watson," John extended his hand. Sherlock looked at it for a second, but did not take it. After a couple more seconds passed, it was evident that Sherlock wasn't going to shake it, so he slowly lowered his arm back on the table. Sherlock leaned forward, eyes burning into John's, making him squirm in the hard plastic of his seat.

"And you tried killing yourself with a handgun, probably a pistol, one that was issued to you during the war, which you served in until you got shot in the shoulder by a sniper hiding away in a faraway bush. Your life amounted to nothing when you came back to London and found a comfort in that gun. You held it, stoked it, loved it. It became your only solace, your only friend. Depression crept in, but you did not seek help. It escalated to the point where you found the gun to be your only escape from this world and you'd be more than happy to let it off you, because your last living thought would be you holding the cold metal in your hands and that thought comforted you. Just as you were about to pull the trigger, someone walked into your flat, a family member, possibly a sibling. And here you are, in the psyche ward." Sherlock sat back with a slight smug smile on his face. John sat there, mouth agape. He knew he should feel offended, even violated, but he couldn't.

"That was...fantastic," John spluttered. Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. His eyebrows furrowed as he shifted in his seat. 

"You really think so?" 

"Of course. That was incredible, extraordinary, magnificent," John answered, awe coloring his voice. There was a spark in Sherlock's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had came.

"People don't...people don't usually say that." Sherlock said, looking down. Was that, was that a blush?

"And what do they say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock deadpanned, looking at him from behind that veil of curls. They shared an extended look until they each broke off into smiles. 

"Did I miss out on a good joke?" Sarah, the head nurse, asked with a kind smile. They both looked at each other for a second time, smiling even wider this time. Sarah sighed, rolling her eyes in good humor. "Never mind. Boys and their secrets. Anyway, time for your pills John," Sarah said, offering him the small container with the assortment of pills in it. He swallowed them in one gulp, taking a big swig of water to wash them down. "Open up," Sarah instructed. John opened his mouth and closed it as soon as Sarah gave him the green light. 

"So, where are your pills?" John asked, taking another sip of water.

"I only have to take them in the morning and at night." John looked at Sherlock skeptically.

"You have questions," Sherlock said in an obvious tone, arms crossed on his chest. 

"All right, fine. You've caught me. Why aren't you eating?"

"Not hungry."

"But you look so-"

"Not. Hungry. And due to the fact digestion slows brain work."

"How did you know about me when I've never even spoken to you before?"

"I'm good at reading people," he said with a half smile.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed it is, John." Sherlock replied. John looked up, eyes widening. That was the first time he actually said his name. And it sounded glorious. He wanted him to say it over and over and over again. Whisper it, shout it, scream it, moan it...

John shook his head, dispelling those previous thoughts. He hesitated before opening his mouth again. He wanted to ask so many things, but he felt as if walking on egg shells around this man. 

"I know what you want to ask John, so I'll just tell you. Yes, I was in jail, but my brother, Mycroft pulled some strings and got me into rehab. On one of my truly bad days, I tried killing myself, but was, obviously, unsuccessful. You would think those guards would take more care into checking whether anyone had anything on them. I managed to smuggle in a bottle of pain killers and downed them. Someone saw me take the pills, called an ambulance, and I had to get my stomach pumped. Afterwards the doctors admitted me into the psyche ward, and here I am, talking with you in a dull, dreary hospital cafeteria." Sherlock jolted upright and tilted his head. "I don't think I've properly introduced myself. The name's Sherlock Holmes, but you probably already know that, me being on the news and all."

"Well, I saw you in the paper a week or so ago. Your name is what drew me in. It's very peculiar." Sherlock gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. "No! Oh no, that's not what I meant. You have a great name. It's original, while mine is just plain ordinary. I bet you'd find hundreds of John Watsons, milling about in the London area."

"I like your name, John," Sherlock said with a ghost of a smile. But he didn't need to grin because there was finally that light in his eyes. The light that has been absent from them for far too long. He could see the shine in those beautiful eyes and wanted to weep. He did that. John returned the light that was lost to this helpless man. A silence stretched between the two men. When the attendant said lunch was over, John cleared his throat.

"Well, looks like that's our cue."

"I suppose it is," Sherlock said, eyes never leaving John's. 

"I'll see you later then, yeah?" John asked tentatively. He wanted, needed, to see him again, to converse with him, anything.

"Of course, John." Sherlock replied with a half smile. 

"All right, good. Cheers mate," John said, smiling in return.

\---

Sherlock and John became very close ever since their meet up in the cafeteria. Sherlock looked to be much improved since their first meeting. His skin had more color, his hair looked shiny and bouncy as opposed to limp and greasy, although still was quite shaggy.The bags were virtually gone, only a slight purpling right under his eyes. The light stayed in those ever changing eyes. Whether they decided to be blue or grey or green, that twinkle was always there and John knew it was because of him. He never got over that fact. Sometimes, he would glance over at Sherlock and look at his eyes and feel warm all over. He also seemed to gain a bit of weight and now looked healthier than John has ever seen. This may be because John would always heckle him to eat something while in the cafeteria. He would sulk and grumble, but eventually, with a defeated sigh, ate a small portion of food. 

They no longer only met during lunch. They sat together at breakfast and dinner as well. They would talk about trivial nonsense that would make them laugh and smile. But they would also talk about dark matters. Like the fact that John killed so many people during the war he became numb to it. And when he failed to save another patient, he just thought of it as a body with no identity to be carted off on a plane somewhere.

Sherlock talked of his previous addictions, how he was constantly looking for the latest fix. He told him about his previous job, a consulting detective he called it, but was thrown out when he came to a crime scene too high to concentrate on the work in front of him. The more Sherlock revealed about himself, the more John grew to love him. This man, this broken, broken man, was being mended right before his very eyes. He had gone through so damn much, struggled through life dependent on drugs, but John could feel him turning around. He knew this man wasn't another addict you found slumped in the alleys. He was different in every single way. He was witty and smart and funny and bloody brilliant. And John knew he wasn't the only one to feel this way. He could see the stolen glances and what hid underneath those smiles. 

Sherlock and John were being discharged on the same day. The staff threw a little party where they had pizza and cake. John said goodbye to the people he met during his time in the ward. Sherlock never left his side. People whispered, but neither of them cared. All that mattered was Sherlock. How was he supposed to tell him this?

In this short period of time, he had fallen so hard for Sherlock and couldn't think of a life without him. He needed his presence to live. He didn't know how to put this in words. When the patients went back to their respected rooms and the staff went back to their jobs, John stood there with his belongings, still standing close to Sherlock. He suddenly turned to him and looked up with purpose.

"Sherlock-" John never got to finish what he was about to say due to the fact of Sherlock's lips pressing onto his. He was surprised at first, but when was he not with this spectacular man? He dropped his bags and wound his arms around his long neck. John sucked on Sherlock's full bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from the tall man. He tugged at those curls, relishing the soft, supple curls as they slipped into his hands. Sherlock's tongue darted into John's mouth, warm and wet, and hemoaned. He could feel the chuckle resound in his chest, the sonorous tones reverberating in John's spine. John pulled him in even closer, nipping at his lip. When they finally managed to disentangle themselves from the other, they were both flushed, gasping for breath.

"John, you do not know how long I've wanted to do that," Sherlock heaved. 

"Sherlock, I've wanted you to do that ever since the first time you opened your mouth. But next time, I'll be the one taking you by surprise," John said cheekily.

"Next time? Does that imply that...you want this to continue?" Sherlock asked, hope thickening his voice. John cupped his cheek in his hand and looked earnestly up at him.

"In a word: yes." John leaned in and brushed his lips lightly on Sherlock's. He was rewarded with a full smile and a gleam in his eyes. He slipped his hand into his long slender one, fingers intertwined. John picked up his things, but left the cane. Ever since he has met Sherlock, he's forgotten he even needed the can in the first place. 

"I don't know if it would be too forward to ask, but do you think you would consider moving in with me? I can no longer pay rent by myself so I'll be looking for a flatmate. Instead of going through those mind numbing imbeciles I'd be interviewing, I thought maybe I'd have someone a bit more...pleasant to share housing with. I would, of course, understand if you were to deny my offer. I'm just putting it out there." Sherlock looked straight ahead, avoiding having to look down. 

"I would really like that," John replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

"Are you sure? Because if you think that's too far of a step..." Sherlock said trailing off. 

"Sherlock, do I have to get a megaphone and scream it at the top of my lungs? Iwant to move in with you, you daft man."

"Well, now that that's settled...I play the violin when I'm thinking. Are you fine with that?

"Yes."

"And don't talk for days on end. How about that?

"I can handle it."

"And-" John stopped their brisk pace and put his free hand over his mouth.

"Sherlock, it's all fine." John flashed him a warm smile and removed him hand. They walked out of the hospital, hands still clasped together with a smile adorning each of their faces.


End file.
